Redux
by CroweFan
Summary: New Chapter.
1. Prologue

**Author:** Penny

**Title:** Redux

**Disclaimer:** I will neve be JJ Abrams. Perhaps, I might be the "Next" JJ Abrams one day, but I will never be JJ Abrams.

**Rating: **PG**/**PG-13

**Redux: Prologue**  
  
Frankly, life has been a bitch since Mom died four years ago, leaving me alone the world at the age of sixteen when I needed her the most. She missed it all: prom, gradutation, acceptance letters, saying goodbye, marriage, kids. It hit us hard, Mom could do anything; she was intelligent, talented, beautiful, and healthy. She was a walking, talking, living Diana Prince. She was suppose to live forever, not die in a house fire.  
  
Vaughn -- I call my Dad, Vaughn, because that´s what Mom called him; and by the time I realized I should address him as daddy or dad or father, it was too late. He was Vaughn. However, he never seemed to mind; he would just smile, kiss my forehead, and gently pull my pigtails.  
  
Vaughn and I went skiing at Killington for the weekend, just the two of us, and had an amazing time. Perhaps too amazing because when we returned home the house was gone and Mom was dead. The two cats, Westley and Buttercup, survived.   
  
Vaughn worshipped my mother. When she died his spirit died with her. The two of us got throught the funeral and wake with façades and civil conversation, but it all fell apart afterwards.  
  
I have a feeling he always liked her better than me. He loved me and was the best father I could have hoped for, but there was something about mom he never felt about me; it´s almost as if he loved me, but he liked her. I do not exactly know, but something always felt off.  
  
Everything was off after the accident. Vaughn worked long hours at the State Department and drank scotch behind the close doors of his office where he believe I did not know what he was doing. But, I found the empty bottles.  
  
I was in pain too, for God´s sake. I wanted to scream at him: I loved her too, but I just started to ingore him. Sometimes I would want to talk, but all he wanted was Mom. Finally about a month later, I told him to fuck off; after that our dinners were slient.  
  
Despite the systematic destruction of our relationship, he agreed to pay for my college education at George Washigton University. The day he dropped me off at the freshman dorms he told me he loved me and was proud of me. Clinging to him, I wanted to cry and tell him she is not coming back and we need to get through this together and I want him to stop being stupid because I still love him and someday it will all be okay.   
  
Pride and pessimism stopped me. Why should I crack? He was the one being an asshole, plus he probably only said it because he knew he was going to be alone in that apartment and was only reaching out for his own selfness needs. He could go to Hell for all I cared. I did not tell him I loved him back. Instead I told him I planned on interning, and I would only be home for Thanksgiving and Christmas (even though we lived in the same city).   
  
A quarter of the way into my first semster Alex Peterson and I started dating. I spent holidays with his family until we broke up a couple months ago for one reason: I didn´t want to get married. He was a couple years ago and wanted the whole nine yards. I wanted a career, so we went our seperate ways. What can you say, it was not meant to be (not to mention growing up with my parents, I wanted what they had, and more).  
  
After breaking up with Alex, I was just a sophomore at GWU, double majoring in political science and intentional affairs and minoring in economics with no boyfriend, no father, no roommate, and no job. I just had a lot of papers to write and coffee to drink.   
  
On the week of first semester finals a man I have never met before asked I was Alicia Vaughn. I nodded and he handed me his card. Having my quarter-life crisis five years early, obviously I was going to accept the offer from the man in the black trenchcoat and sunglasses claiming to be CIA.   
  
First, I thought it was a joke; next, I thought it was an elaborate hoax to get me alone and rape me; then, I realized he was serious after about five hundred questions (ranging from the stupid, if you are CIA, who is the current DCI, to important, why the hell are you asking me? I did not apply. Aren´t I a little young?).  
  
I fit a Profile. Whatever the hell that means.   
  
But as I stared at the business card with the address, musing about my father´s job at the State Department, it didn´t seem so crazy. Plus not all CIA was James Bond, lots of the employees were analysists and I wanted to work for some branch of the government to begin with. Why not the CIA?  
  
And, I bet they have great Dental.  
  
I went to the address. After months of tests and waiting and background checks, I got the phone call saying I was being shipped to The Farm. Perfecting time, too, classes just ended for the year. So, I am going to be a CIA officer, if I pass training. There are worse jobs in the world.  
  
And Vaughn? I haven´t told Vaughn yet. Let him find out when I´m field certifiated.  
  
TBC... 


	2. Chapter 1

**Redux: Chapter 1**  
  
I'm not stupid. I had the highest GPA in all three programs at George Washington and graduated second in my High School class; that damn Christina Ortiz graduated valedictorian because she got an A in AP Physics and managed to pull it off with only an A (and it was a low A) despite the fact my thesis on Catullus had been published. Simply, Physics is not my forte.   
  
I was raised an intellectual capable of defending herself; that is what I am. By my eleventh birthday, I could speak Italian, French, Spanish, and English, I could read Caesar (even if I didn't truly understand what I was reading until college). Vaughn insisted I learn Latin, something about finishing off the romance languages and reading Catullus and Virgil with my feet on the fireplace (again, in college I discovered my father's true meaning). I'm not claiming to be a genius – technology, automobiles, physics are all Greek to me; however my parents seemed determined to raise an intellectual and cultured daughter, and here I am twenty-one years later, the product of a language professor and CIA Officer's dream.  
  
That's right: CIA Officer. As I said, I am not stupid and can't believe it took me this long to decipher the truth. Perhaps it's because passing Physics, not the CIA, was high on my short list before training. Being here though makes me feel like an idiot; the tacit questions the recruiters ask, his business trips, his little quirks and paranoia, and his work at the "State Department" added up to only one conclusion: Vaughn was, or still is, CIA.  
  
Vaughn was paranoid about my safety, borderline obsessive and Mom ten times as worse. I was the only second grader with a cell phone. When I was seven, I told them I wanted to learn to fence like Inigo Montoya. They enrolled me in lessons the next week. Mom taught me how to throw a punch and successfully do a roundhouse kick at the age of ten. They kept me active, healthy, and alert.  
  
But here's the kicker. Sometime in May when I was thirteen, Vaughn sat me down and gave me a 9mm, semi-automatic (standard CIA issue, but I didn't know that then). Flabberghasted, doesn't begin to describe my confusion and alarm that my father was giving me a gun. I didn't even know we had guns in the house! Where did he get it? What is the point of the exercise? I told him I do not like guns, and he nodded giving me his Guns-Are-Bad-Do-Not-Play-With-Them spiel; subsequently he taught me how to change the magazine, remove the safety, and fire with less kickback as possible. After the theory lesson, he took me into the backyard for the real thing. I hit three out of the five targets; and when I was done, I wanted to try again. But, he only gave me five shots. His last piece of advanced, aim for the chest, you're bound to hit something, pops in my head during every target practice.   
  
At the time I didn't understand his methods. When I asked him he told me the world's dangerous. He wanted me to be prepared. I looked at him odd, for what? To protect myself? Isn't that what I have him for? Vaughn smiled his Father Smile when I said that, and he pulled my ponytail (I openly hated, but secretly loved when he did that). I got all warm and fussy. He vowed to always protect me that day in the backyard, but the practice was just his "paranoia and obsession with my safety." God, I loved him. We laughed, went inside, made popcorn, and watched _To Catch a Thief_. Half way through the movie, he said: don't tell Mom. I never did.  
  
So many little things you miss when you aren't looking for them. At the Farm, they spent days teaching you to always be prepared and alert. That's why when all of the piece fall right into place I felt like such dumb blonde – even though I was brunette.  
  
The CIA trainee program was a long, tiresome, political, and slow process. Thank god, I was not training to be a case officer. They spend far too much time at the Death Star (ala Headquarters) for my liking. All trainees go through CIA 101 there. It's… tedious. You learn how to file papers, type up reports, apply for dental insurance, and other basic Epionage for Dummies rules and regulations.  
  
Most of the people there were older, I am sure I was the youngest. Three or four looked to be twenty-six, twenty-seven; most were males; most were in their thirties and either relatively attractive or so plan they blended into the wall; lots were ex-military. One guy in the front row, in the corner caught my attention. He looked to be the second youngest. Not a bad looking fellow, he had black bed-hair and a nose that fit his face well. He wasn't stunning, but he wasn't bad to look at either. I sized up the entire room as the instructor who introduced herself as Dolly detailed our training.   
  
I felt way out of my league. At the time I thought I was too young and going to wash out. I wasn't mature enough to handle the responsibly or the pressure. What the hell did they see in me? I was just a girl from Arlington whose only dream in the world was to became Press Secretary one day. That's it – not Congresswoman, not Supreme Court Judge, not President, certainty not CIA field agent. I just wanted to be the White House Press Secretary.  
  
How things changed. Once you go CIA, you never go back.  
  
To my surprise (but not my instructors) I was good.  
  
Quite good in fact.  
  
Okay. I was the best in the class.  
  
Something inside me clicked, because I felt built for this stuff. I thrived off of coffee and two hours of sleep. The less sleep I got the more I turned into Mary Sunshine. I passed the fitness test in two skips and a jump, and actually knocked out one of my instructors once. I felt horrible afterwards, and thought I was so screwed. He came around a minute later, cursing and demanding to know where the hell I learned that. My parents, I replied. He looked at me hard, and squinted while asking, "What's your name again?"  
  
"Alicia Vaughn, sir."  
  
He paused for a second, and I wanted to know if I did something wrong. He opened his mouth, letting out an "Ah" before saying, "The Protég  
  
And that was the moment I knew my father's dirty (not-so) little secret. "You knew my father?" I blurted out before I knew what I was doing.  
  
He responded in that damn CIA ambiguous tone I hated. "I know of him."  
  
"What does that mean?" I snapped, and then thought I needed to learn to control my mouth.  
  
"That means what is means, Miss Vaughn. I know of your father. Now I suggest you go take a shower and get down the mess hall."  
  
Fucking prick. That was like dangling heroin in front of an addict and laughing at his failed attempts to snatch it from you. I didn't object though; I went down to the mess hall and thought more about Vaughn.  
  
TBC... 


	3. Chapter 2

Redux: Chapter 2  
  
His name was Mitchell Flinkman.  
  
The twenty-something with black bed-hair and a nose that nose suited him well, that was Mitchell. We were formerly introduced on the bus ride to the Farm, but other than shaking hands we didn't say much. I sat next to him; he slept with his head against the window and I thought of Vaughn.   
  
We stopped and I tapped Mitchell on the shoulder. He woke up and we filed off of the bus with the thirty other trainees. Thirty-two men and woman were divided into four groups of eight, before being sent off to our dorms to drop our stuff off and subsequently report to class. All of us were excited and happy to be there, finally away from that hell-hole called Headquarters and CIA 101.  
  
Mitchell was sorted into my group along with Guy Haines, the ex-army Captain from Texas, who sported horrible cologne; H.H. Hughson, a handsome and buff black man, who I would trust my life with in a millisecond; Stella Reynolds, a linguistic professor from some Mid-Western university, who looked like she didn't get her tenure and was going through her mid-life crisis; Midge Atwood, a recent recruit and graduate from MIT, who didn't let you forget she went to MIT (graduated magna cum laude, too boot); Rebecca Valentino, who would be the perfect swallow agent if she didn't have morals to go with her drop-dead gorgeous Italian heritage; and Rod Taylor, the Harvard lawyer, who was the least interesting person I have ever met in my life. Mitchell and I were the only ones under thirty.  
  
The first class was what I expected, more lectures, more instructions, more rules. Tomorrow will would start basic training. They told us to eat a good meal and go to bed, tomorrow was going to be a long day. Mitchell and I were the only ones that took the bed advice, everyone else got smashed and most were hung over the next morning.  
  
At dinner, the eight of us sat today and got to know each other (it was Stella's idea). The elders sat around swapping life stories about their Alma Mater, relationships, horror stories, and pets. I sat quietly, cataloging all the information and laughing at them to myself. Apparently the fact they were in CST spilled their mind. Mitchell didn't say much either, he eat his cream of broccoli soup by pushing the spoon away from, not towards, himself. I liked that; someone taught him proper etiquette.   
  
Midge wouldn't shut up about MIT and her graduate professors. I listened to them discuss their life accomplishments and how they joined the CIA to "give something back", and my worthiness increased ten fold. I was not on the same playing field with these people. What the hell was I doing there? Finally, my quietness caught Midge's attention. She pressed her lips together, a habit I would grow to loathe, and questioned, "What about you, Hun?" Another habit I grew to detest, "Why are you here? You seem so…" She searched for the right word, and came up with, "Young."  
  
I hid my disgust with a twitchy smile, and responded, "I'm twenty-one, and the recruiter said I fit the Profile."  
  
"Profile?" Midge pressed on, "What does that mean?"  
  
I didn't have a clue. But, my mouth opened up and I spit out, "Profile for the primer agent; someone highly intelligent, capable, and active, with no family, no friends, no life to leave behind. Someone that can commit 110% to becoming the next Company man or woman. That is The Profile."  
  
To this day, I have no idea where the bitterness came from. I looked around at the shocked faces, and suddenly hated my father. Isn't that why I was here? Because I had no family or life? If I had been a happy college student, and been in a better relationship with my father would I still have been here? I suddenly realized my reasons for being at the CIA had nothing to do with adrenaline rushes or patriotism or "giving something back". It had do with Vaughn.  
  
Hughson spoke first, "Well, Miss, I'm sorry to hear that. Now, what did you say your name was again?"  
  
I smiled at him, thanking God, he was changing the subject. "Alicia Vaughn."  
  
"Such a pretty name," Haines said in his Southern drawl, "Is it a family name?"  
  
I didn't want to divulge my family history, or my history for that matter, with these people. I was training to be a CIA officer, for God's sake. But I didn't want to be rude, I was going to have to work with them for months, so I responded, "No, my parents named me after a character in their favorite Hitchcock movie."  
  
None of the other got it. Mitchell said to me in an energetic voice (which surprised me considering how quiet he'd been), "You're parents have great taste. I always consider that to be the best of his black and white films. And quite fitting considering you are here now."  
  
"It's one of my top five favorite movies, but surprisingly it's not my favorite Hitchcock film. I'm partial to [i]Vertigo[/i]."  
  
"Well, who isn't? I mean, James Stewart has never been better. I have to say my favorite, favorite, film by Hitchcock is [i]North by Northwest[/i]."  
  
"What? Everyone says that. What about [i]Strangers on a Train[/i], or [i]The Man Who Knew Too Much[/i]?"  
  
"Cary Grant, Alicia, Cary Grant."  
  
"Then why not [i]To Catch A Thief[/i]?"  
  
"I do not know, I simply like [i]North By Northwest[/i] better."  
  
I shrugged the others looked at us strangely; Hughson grinned and Rebecca looked perplexed. "What movie are you talking about?"  
  
"[i]Notorious[/i], starring Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman." I said and paused, but their faces didn't change. I continued to explain the plot, "The woman, Alicia Hubermen, is the daughter of a Nazi-spy and after he father hangs himself in prison, a CIA case officer, H.R. Devlin, recruits her to go to Rio to get close to and spy on Alex Sebastian, a former Nazi. Alicia and Devlin fall in love, but her assignment gets in the way, you can deduct what happens from there."  
  
"What happens?" Taylor asked. You've got to be kidding me. How did the CIA find these people? Mitchell finished it off for me.  
  
"Alicia's assignment is to married Alex; and she does. She and Dev fight and she starts to get sick, and disappears for a couple days. He worries, and then finds out that Alex discovered the truth about his wife and started poisoning her to kept things quiet. However, Dev discovers the truth and saves Alicia. And they live happily ever after."  
  
"How sweet." Stella says, "Sounds like a good movie."  
  
"It is." Mitchell and I said in unison.  
  
"But that stuff only happens in the movies. I heard it is impossible to keep a relationship, let alone inter-agency with someone if you work here." Midge inserted to kill the mood.  
  
"I suppose you never heard about Boy Scout and Mountaineer." Rebecca spat back; she apparently was just as impressed with Midge as I.   
  
"Oh please, that is just a Legend."  
  
The others nodded and Mitchell sipped his soup, finishing it up, and didn't say a word. Apparently, it was my turn to act stupid, since clearly I was the only one who didn't know the story of Boy Scout and Mountaineer. When I asked, Midge huffed, suggesting I should have read up on all my Agency folklore before I joined up.   
  
Has Midge told it, "Mountaineer was Boy Scout's asset when Mountaineer was double agent. However, it was much more than that. Mountaineer would only work for Boy Scout; and Boy Scout was deemed too emotionally attached to be Mountaineer's case officer. But it was too late, because they were already in love, and were the best team the CIA had. They two of them single-handedly took down the organization Mountaineer was a double for in record time. After that, they were the toast of the Agency until Mountaineer died in a freak accident, and Boy Scout quit the Agency."  
  
"But that's not a happy ending." I said to Rebecca, "They failed."  
  
Rebecca threw a look to Midge and told me, "There is more. Mountaineer didn't die. Mountaineer was kidnapped by another organization and disappeared for two years, reappearing after with no memory of the time passed. Mountaineer woke up and discovered Boy Scout married another. Life apparently was hell, until they discovered the truth: that Boy Scout's spouse worked to the people who kidnapped Mountaineer, to make sure when Boy Scout sobered up Boy Scout never tried to find Mountaineer or learn the truth. And Boy Scout had been conditioned to forget Mountaineer. After they discovered the truth, they killed the spouse, destroyed the organization, and quit. They got their happily ever after."  
  
"No," Stella corrected. "They never took down the organization, they just quit."  
  
Even Hughson had an opinion, "They didn't quit, they went rogue."  
  
"Either way, they were together. They made it." Rebecca concluded.  
  
I hated to admit it, but I agreed with Midge. I thought the story was hogwash. That Sh-t just doesn't happen. But I nodded, and was glad I knew the story of Boy Scout and Mountaineer. The table went quiet again, and Midge loaded on the questions for me.  
  
"So, Hun, what did your parents say when you told them? I bet your mother nearly had a heart-attack!"  
  
"My mother is dead." I curtly said and hoped she felt horrible. The woman started acting like mothers, and consoling me about my lost. I smiled and didn't say a word.  
  
"Then what about your father?"  
  
I paused. This was before I knew his true profession, and I regretted, I suppose, not telling him where I would be for the next two years. At CIA 101, they inform you, you're allowed to disclose your job to the innermost members of your family. Some do and some don't.   
  
I stared at the phone for an hour, having a heatedly debate with myself on if I should call up my father who I haven't seen in two years and tell him I'm joining the CIA. In the end, that same voice who stopped me from telling him I loved him my freshman year stopped me again. He doesn't care about me, he only cared about my mother. Or, I thought: he would just try to stop me and try to control my life.   
  
Wasn't that what he and Mom subtly did, when they made me learn all those languages when the other kids were watching Blue's Clues? They subtly made every decision in my life for me, so, finally, I am going to make one of my own. I finished packing and didn't call. Not even to tell him I wouldn't be in touch. Let him sweat.  
  
"My father's heart collapsed shortly after Mom died."  
  
That was not a total lie, that was simply stretching the truth. Vaughn emotionally died with Mom; only his shell survived.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Hun."  
  
Aren't we all. I shamelessly changed the topic. "Et tu, Mitchell. Why are you here?" I mimicked Midge's tone. Only he got the reference.  
  
"Well, Ali, I'm a twenty-four year old Hindu and recent graduate of ITT with a Ph.D. in nuclear chemistry, a Masters in Psychics and a B.S in Astrometry. I just finished up school, and got on a plane to Ronald Reagan. And now, I am here!"  
  
"You're twenty-four?" He was lying, I just knew it. The others, clearly thought he was insane as well.  
  
"Technically, I'm a genius. I tested out of High School, half way through my sophomore year and went to MIT. However, Midge, I don't know how you stood it there. All the kids did was play Dungeons and Dragons or got pissed. They were a bunch of intellectual idiots, and the professors were pompous assholes. Unfortunately, I wasn't legal so I had to stay their until I was eighteen and transferred to IIT."  
  
I could have kissed him. The look on Midge's face. Genius. Pure Genius. She didn't retort, and I checked my watch. It was getting late, and decided to take a run to work off my energy before going to bed. Mitchell followed, muttering something about not wanting to be with Midge. The others stayed behind and got drunk. I went for a five mile run on the treadmill while watching the Anderson Cooper. Then I went to bed.  
  
The first week of training went great. The instructors loved me, the students hated me, and Mitchell tried his best not to snicker all day long. He had a sick sense of humor, I thoughly enjoyed. He laughed a lot at me and I rolled my eyed at him. The instructor, I who I would knock out in a few days kept a keen idea on me. After a month we were allowed to leave the Farm for an excursion. Mitchell and I decided to check out the indie theater.  
  
Life, for the first time since Mom died, was going fantastic.  
  
TBC... 


	4. Chapter 3

(the lyrics are to Bowie´s Golden Years)

**Redux: Chapter 3**  
  
Every morning before school Mom and I went for a run through Arlington National Cemetery, and returned home, if Vaughn wasn't on a business trip, to a homecooked breakfast, his treat. On weekends he made his speciality crêpes, that Mom and I both adored; he also could make a killer French Toast. The three of us chattered about our day, and yesterday before rushing out the door to work and school. It was the only time the three of us had together during the week.  
  
After Mom died Vaughn stopped eating breakfast (he actually stopped eating all together) and I stopped running in the Cemetery. The day after the funeral I got up like normal, put on my running shoes and headed out on my normal route. At the Old Amphitheatre I was in tears. I stopped in front of Kennedy's grave and turned around to graze down Pennsylvania Avenue. I never went for jog there again; actually, I stopped jogging all together.  
  
A decision I regret now as I bolt down the street, screaming at Mitchell to haul ass. We exited the indie theatre, and he was trying to explain something about Psychics to me, which despite his passion for the subject, I was lost. Half way something about Newton, I noticed a man behind us; he had arrived after us in a Blue Explorer and waited behind us in line; he saw the same film, and now tailed behind us a safe distance.   
  
I moved closer to Mitchell, wrapping my arm around him in a couple fashion. He was surprised, and paused mid-sentence, and I whispered to him, "Don't look, keep talking, there's a guy in a tan jacket behind us. Do you have a Swiss-Army knife?"  
  
"How many times do I have to explain Newton's Third law to you? It is the simplest of the three, just think of it like Karma." He chatted away without a change in tone, and slipped his knife into my strategic placed hand. I smiled, and he winked at him. I saw the Ford Explorer parallel parked on the street and causally moved towards it.  
  
We appeared to cross the street behind the SUV, but at the rear tear I stopped, told him to shut up and kissed him. As my left hand caressed his cheek, my left slashed the tire with his Swiss arm knife. A second later he pulled away and kissed me once more on the temple I smiled, and we crossed the street.  
  
Neither of us said anything about it. He continued to explain Psychics and I continued to be perplexed about Psychics, and watchful for the man in the tan jacket's friend. At the corner, I had a bad feeling. There was an unmarked car driving down the street and a hand full of characters I didn't trust. I told Mitchell we had company, and he suggested we get a cab. I agreed, but both we could hail on down, it happened. The unmarked car pull along side us, and the next thing I remembered was Mitchell commanding me to run and taking off down the street. The car did a U-Turn and followed us. How the hell did we find the only abandoned street in D.C.? I lost track of Mitchell, and when I looked back he was gone. My instincts took over, I didn't stop, that would have been suicide.   
  
The last thing I remember was knocking one of my pursuers out with my elbow, then being shot with a tranquilizer gun. I woke up to pitch blackness. Instantaneously, I realized this was the torture and interrogation part of our training.  
  
Fuck, this was going to suck.  
  
I laid in the corner and cover my eyes with my hands, trying to get a hold of my surroundings and trying to predict what they were going to do next. I sat in that room for what seemed like days before someone came to interrogation me. They dragged me to my feet and I managed to knock one of them to his feet before that fettered me to a chair. They wanted to know my name, my position in the Agency, the names of my fellow trainees, etc., etc., etc.   
  
The exercise had no effect on me what-so-ever except to make me bitchy as hell. I knew they were CIA. I knew they couldn't actually kill me, or my family. I knew they weren't going to let me die. They were not actually going to follow through with their threats. All they did was throw me in some little cell for god-knows-how-long and watch me sweat. The sensory deprivation got to me, I started to act crazy. I mindfucked the instructor just as hard at they mindfucked me.  
  
A tall blonde man screamed at him, saying all he had to do was give the go on his two-way cell and my parents were dead. I told him, good. Make sure to kill my mother first, please.  
  
I thought about Mitchell and hoped he hadn't broke yet; or that he had and was safe in his bunk recovering.   
  
They beat me and I asked them if it made them feel good to beat a young woman. They threatened to rape me, and I dared them to – I would have my arm chains so quickly around the poor soul's neck, he wouldn't know what hit him; and if by chance I allowed him to survive I would press changes before he could say Wild Bill Donovan.  
  
My head ached, along with my entire body and I was having trouble saying attentive. I kept falling asleep and having the same dream. I was five and alone in a small room playing with a little doll a strange man gave to me. I was all alone and scared and the strange man kept coming in and checking on me and giving me little candies. And then I cried and saw the door open and Vaughn and Mom came rushing in to save me. I ran into my father's arms and he picking me up, resting my head against his shoulder. He allowed Mom to take me from him, and then he hugged the both of us. Both were crying. Never in my life, excluding Mom's death, had I seen my father cry. Never had I felt so safe.  
  
I woke with a sharp kick to the stomach. I realized were I was and suddenly wanted to be back in my dream again. I wanted my father to burst in and save me. I wanted him to apologize for cutting me off from his life after Mom's death, and I wanted to apologize for being so petty and for joining the CIA in the first place. I just wanted to see him again.  
  
Apparently the interrogators could read minds because they sat me down at a table with a bright light shinning in my face and opened up a file. "The protégé."  
  
I didn't say a fucking word.  
  
"Do you know how long you've been here, Alicia?"  
  
I didn't say a fucking word.  
  
"Two weeks and a day. That is a long time."  
  
I didn't say a fucking word.  
  
"Do you feel you have something to prove, protégé?"  
  
I didn't say a fucking word.  
  
"You have nothing to prove. So, why don't you tell us the names of your team members?"  
  
I was tired. "Okay. Write this down."  
  
He seemed disappointed, but got out his pen.  
  
"I will tell you how to spell the first member's name. E. M. E. T. I. B. Got that. Now, reserve it."  
  
Stupidity, he did, and when he looked up at me, he was pissed as hell. I laughed, hysterically. Mom had a good sense of humour. She taught my that when I was in Middle School and Shelly Jenkins kept picking on me.  
  
He seemed deemed to succeeded where all the others failed. "Interesting, your Michael Vaughn's daughter. How is he doing? He seemed to never fully recover from your mother's death, isn't that right?"  
  
Right then, I knew I was through. I was too tired and too sore and too bitchy to deal with this line of questioning. This was a test of my wits and will, to see how long I could last. I looked him straight in the eye, letting him think he didn't get to me.  
  
"God, he loved her. I saw them once at a Christmas party. He just couldn't keep his eyes off her; spoiled her rotten. Head over Heels. Or perhaps, he was just consolidating for past mistakes."  
  
My father loved my mother. He loved her so much all of this happened. Shut the bastard out.  
  
"After all, he is professional liar. And what about you?"  
  
La la la, I am not listening to you... la la… _Golden years, Golden rules, Golden years, don't let me hear you say life's taking you no where, angel….  
_  
"What type of father would honestly let their child be tortured? What father would really want the put their child in such danger if they really loved them?"  
  
My father loved – loves me.  
  
"Why hasn´t he saved you or stopped them? All he had to do was make a phone call?"  
  
La la la la… _Last night they loved you, opening some doors and pulling some strings, Angel…. Stick with your baby for a thousand years, nothing's doing to touch you in these Golden years…  
_  
"But, I've work with him before on a few operations, and he told me the truth. That he never really wanted you."  
  
"Shut up!" I choked back the tears.  
  
"You didn't know the truth? You ever wonder why he hasn't contacted you in all these years? It's because he doesn't give a rat's ass about what happens to you. He wanted your mother to himself, he never wanted a child."  
  
"I am not telling you a god damn fucking thing!" But, that was a lie. I would tell them anything they wanted, if they would stop. Why hadn't he contacted me? Why hadn't I seen him since I joined the Agency? Why so secret? Is this prick actually speaking the truth? He is. It makes sense. It makes complete sense.  
  
"Don't you think isn't strange, he never corrected you when you called him Vaughn? Isn't that what you call him? Vaughn? Just like everyone else. You were never anything but a nuisance to him!"  
  
"FUCK YOU!" I was too tired, too weak. I was starting to forget things about him, I hadn't sent him in two years. I had no idea how he still felt about me. I doubted he cared. I began to cry. I wanted to see my father.  
  
The blonde man didn´t say anything, he just let me cry. After a moment, he asked if I was ready to reveal the name of my team members. I continued to cry.  
  
He opened his mouth, but I stopped him. Softly, I said. "You win, okay. You fucking win. Whatever you want. But, before I do, I want to see my father."  
  
Game over.  
  
The lights in the room flicked on and two other men I hadn't seen before filed in. They looked at the man sitting across from me, who had dropped his guise, and asked me and one of the sweetest voice's I'd heard in months, "Miss, are you okay?"  
  
I wanted to throw up.  
  
The man I knocked out the first week had been watching me from afar all these months. He rarely said more than two words to me, just nodded and took notes. He was the first to named me the "Protég". When he kneeled beside me, I never noticed how gentle his face was; he was older, like a Grandfather. He put his hand on my shoulder, and spoke to me in a pacific voice. "Alicia, Congratulations, that's one of the best efforts I've ever seen."  
  
My father loved my mother. He didn't love me. And they are fucking congratulating me for some goddamn test. I do not care about the test.  
  
The man told me, "My name is Marcus Dixon." – That named sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it. My fucking father…. Why didn't he love me? All those years, they could have been fake; you can't fake that emotion. "Alicia, are you okay?"  
  
Did I look like I am fucking okay?  
  
"I need you to know, because this cannot get in the way of your training, that every accusation about your father and he feels towards you was a complete lie. The purpose of his line of questioning, was to break you. We played to your weakness, and the only one you have is your father. Alicia, you asked me if I knew your father, and I said I heard of him; I was stationed with him for several years, I was at your parents´wedding. Otriz was making false accusations, do you understand?"  
  
I stood up and felt dizzy. The only weakness I had was my father. I wiped my eyes, and told Marcus Dixon calmly, I understood.  
  
TBC...


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**  
  
Marcus Dixon escorted me to the clinic and sat with me while the doctor checked me out. He seemed like a sweet man; or at least, he was good at pretending to be sweet and genuine. He wanted to make sure I understood the truth.  
  
"The only truth sir, is I broke. It doesn't matter why, because if this was real, I would be dead now, along with others I came in contact with. That is the truth." My eye were still bloodshot, but I had vowed I had shed my last tear about my father. He made his decisions and I made mine. That, also, was the truth.  
  
"Alicia, if you want, I'll make in a call to Headquarters and try to contact your father."  
  
"No." I said. My only weakness was my father; that was how they broke me. My weakness was unacceptable. From that moment on, I would act like my father was dead. If I started to think that, and believe that, then they couldn't use him against me. I was alone, and all I had was the Agency. The training strengthen my loyalties, I guess it wasn't a waste of my time. I looked at Dixon, "Sir, I have nothing to say to him. It was a moment of weakness, and I assure you it will not happen again."  
  
"Alicia..."  
  
"Sir, I appreciate what you are about to say, I really do. But I don't want favours. I want to make it in the Agency because of my skills, not my family history. Whatever you have to say, thank you. But, no."  
  
He nodded, and I think I imagined admiration in his eyes. "Miss Vaughn," He slipped back into his professional guise, "I respect your decision. It takes a certain character to not accept the free ride; this Agency rewards hard work. Good luck with the rest of your training." He stood and I extended my hand to shake his. He had a good firm handshake, full of character. I smiled at him and drew in my breath.  
  
"Sir...?" I started, but never finished my thought. We kept our hands locked for a minute, and didn't need to say anything. In a few seconds, we reached a mutual understanding, I treasured. I was glad he was just... there.  
  
I felt liked I was back in high school again; no, high school was never this bad – I feel like I am in Middle School. I entered the mess hall and felt thirty eyes following me around, whispering when they thought I wasn't listening. What happened the last day of the torture and interrogation training was classified, meaning everyone knows about it.  
  
I took my tray over to the normal table and sat down between Mitchell and Hughson. We eat in silence until Midge Atwood, walked over and sat her ass down right in front of me. Stella and Rebecca followed. The three women were busting to rip into me, they kept twirling their forks around and eyed each other, while they made forced conversation. It was uncomfortable for all six dinner guests, and I felt bad for Mitchell and Hughson, because they didn't need to sit through this.  
  
Finally, I snapped, "Why don't you cut the foreplay and just ask?" Only Midge tried to play innocent. It lasted less than a minute. She dropped her voice and questioned with her typical tone, "I thought you said your father was dead."  
  
"No, I said my father's heart collapsed after Mom died." I swallowed my annoyance, figuring it was best to discuss this now and move on.  
  
"Well you insinuated definitely."  
  
"No, you made a wrong assumption. Luckily, it was just about my family history, and not something work related. God knows, what could have happened."  
  
She didn't like that comment, firing back with, "Well, this certainty changes my perspective on your abilities. It definitely explains why you are here."  
  
"I don't like what you are insinuating and I suggest you stop."  
  
"Fine. But I am wondering about your father..."  
  
I stood up and told her, "You know what? I don't need this Sh-t from you. From now on, don't talk to me unless we're in class."  
  
I got up and walked off. I heard her call out, "Sure, thing Protégé."  
  
I stomped down the hallway in a manner I stopped acting when I was four. I heard Mitchell's voice behind me, and I allowed him to catch up.  
  
"I know, I know, I shouldn't have snapped at her, but she is such a bitch, and I just needed someone to scream at and she was the perfect target, considering, I had wanted to bitch her out since the moment I –"  
  
And then he did something that caught me totally off guard. He kissed me.  
  
It was the last thing I excepted and a didn't know exactly how to respond. It made sense, it made a lot of sense. For the past six months we had been spending an abundance of time together, and he was the only person at the Farm, I actually cared about. All the others I histrionically cared for, but Mitchell, I would never want anything to happen to him.  
  
What about that kiss before? We were just role playing, it was nothing. Right? But as I kissed him back, I realised I was wrong, it was not nothing, it was something and that scared me. I heard all the horror stories about CIA agents trying to balance a professional and personal relationship. And if I was really going to commit to the job, I had to remain emotionally unattached. I shouldn't be kissing him back, I should tell him, no, and give him about one hundred reasons why we shouldn't being doing this.  
  
Instead I kept kissing him, all the time thinking this is just hormones. I was not in a clear state of mind since because of what Agent Ortiz told me about my father, and I am just reaching out for human contact. I am using him, and I value our friendship too much to ruin it. I....  
  
He pulled away, and said, "I've wanted to do that for the longest time."  
  
I smiled at him, realizing, maybe this didn´t have anything to do with my father. Perhaps, this was something all its own. "Mitchell..."  
  
"I know..."  
  
"But..."  
  
"I know..."  
  
"I..."  
  
He chuckled, "I know. C´mon, let´s give Boy Scout and Mountaineer a run for their money."  
  
If I hurt him, I would never forgive myself. I will not hurt him. I wil not hurt him. "Okay. But, I wanted you to know." I kissed him on the cheek. We awkwardly paused and gazed at me in a foreign way; it was like he knew exactly what I was thinking.   
  
"Do you want to talk about it?" He questioned.  
  
"I know I should, but no."  
  
He nodded, "Okay, well, if you change your mind, you know where I am."  
  
I declared, "I want to take a jog."   
  
He didn´t say any other word, and quipped, "You should hit the punching bag."  
  
"Oh," I smirked, "I think that would be a little too obvious."  
  
He smirked back, "Probably. I'm going to finish dinner."  
  
"Alright. I´m going to go." We went our separate ways, and for once I didn't think about Vaughn.  
  
TBC... 


End file.
